Long Inquisition Poems
Long Inquisition Poems. Below are the most popular long Inquisition by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inquisition poems by poem length and keyword.
Cheer up! Springtime’s here,
Ready to collect the winter’s debree,
Open to flush the desolation away,
Of January’s frozen inquisition.
Birds sing outside my window,
I have no disability to their call,
Bent on approach and situation,
Where they sing full throttle to me.
Blue **** remind me that men,
Can be good and shine as genuine,
Lovers, friends, mentors, acquaintances,
With no refrain to stain and chide.
The brown thrush delights in toddling,
About the cemented path cold,
Occupied but pleasantly interactive,
With something to give from himself.
Rhoda Monihan
I sense your mood in recluse
Standing mute in the shadows.
A suspended position to choose
confused by the amazing views.
Frozen by the amorous advance
You try to resist the explicit move
But it took your guard into a trance.
And entwined our hearts in love.
A state inconceivable lay await
The invisible becomes discernable
instigate desire into s sudden shift
that would include your struggle.
Anxiety daring gasp storm down
showers in the bewildered gaze.
Your visage alone made an atone
With sunny hues and rosy haze.
You must have believed too?
Wondering why you hesitate,
To make the decision for two
With that enormous headache.
Mask in doubt, the uncertain clue
Passions potential, energy waiting
I can sense there is more to you
Ruling out coincidence creating.
Something unique, more intense
A sensual blade sharpens between us,
Promises the intrigue of remittance
on hollow lips long for kinetic kisses.
Advances you to turn away in delay
as in fate, the decision played coy,
a lover’s mistake, just yesterday
the compromises we try to destroy.
Shared deeds reveling through this life
a growth to yield romantic truths,
in depts store the inquisition of grief
embracing the charm paths to delights
What is forgiveness, good question if anything at all
Forgives the adulterer, but did she make the right call
Some crimes so egregious, there’s no second chance
Unless we bury our heads, and go around in a trance
Only the injured party, has the power to truly forgive
Poured acid on my face, but at least then let me live
I mean come on, some fates even worse than death
Torturers, psychopaths, should we forgive and forget,
This is not hatred in my heart, it’s just common sense
How do we believe our perpetrators, actually repent
Prisoners tell the parole board sorry, to get out of jail
Some speak the truth, but others are incorrigible fails
I’m sorry I done wrong, took your car while you slept
It’s ok son your forgiven, left my keys around, so inept
On second thoughts, condoning may encourage it again
Only the next time, they run someone over, what then
Not so straight forward, when I put it to you this way
Forgiveness has consequences, makes hurt seem ok
Indeed in some cases, offence should be overlooked
Where a circumstance dictated, unbecoming conduct
Perhaps the culprit was young, just went off the rails,
Forgive by all means, with some cautionary harsh tale
But what is forgiveness, perhaps just simply letting go
Showing your the bigger person, also good for the ego
Is forgiveness a human delusion, to just give permission
It’s our Christian way, but did anyone tell the inquisition
If there is an almighty God, or indeed some higher power
Will they overlook our not forgiving, come the final hour
To die with a resentment, does it mean an incomplete life
Wait til on ones deathbed, condemn your unfaithful wife
To die of some disease, contracted doing charitable work
Sorry! my own choice, I forgive myself for what it’s worth
FORGIVENESS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
24/5/2021
One day, watching a reddened evening sky
over the western horizon, it’s peculiar though,
a thought that is so preposterous suddenly came to my mind
and that was the earth is not revolving. Is it because the world was
too quiet? Or the world was too chaotic.
Once this absurd thought ran through my mind,
neither of those great names, Copernicus nor Galileo
bore weight on me and their heliocentric theory faded away
as well.
The papal absolution bestowed on Galileo after four century’s
long years of silence, to me, was not only the meaningless gesture of
such an arrogant God’s institution but was the subversion of God’s majestic power or it means that God was ousted from his throne and became subservient to his own creature, man.
After all, it can be said that then,
it was not because the earth revolved on its own axis, time flowed,
or the earth orbited the sun, seasons changed. But because I think
time flows, the time flows. I feel seasons change, the seasons change.
For my wildest notion came to this far I felt uneasy inside. I wanted to hear sound of passing clouds, I was keen on seeing winds pile up under my feet, in this utter stand-still-soundless world.
That is why I thought I should spin earth with all my strength,
though I was weak and flabby. I pushed earth leaning myself
against air, I pulled it, I tried to carry it on my back, but, alas, earth did not move.
I was, therefore, all run down, and that’s why I laid on the ground
staring at the sky and grumbled just like that cowardly Galileo muttered
while exiting from a sacred and inviolable court of the Inquisition after his recantation, “E pur si mouve”—[But it does not move!]
As I grumbled, I heard the sound of drifting clouds,
I saw flowing water resting on the corolla becoming clear dew,
I was stepping on the pile of fallen leaves blown by the passing winds. And even, before I was aware of them, I noticed that stars were twinkling in the darkening sky high above.
Auto-da-fé at Plaza Major
Sixteen-Eighty was brutal on saints and their hissing cats.
A turgid June, thickened as it was by an immature sanguinary wine
that failed to quench the civil mob.
Above the birthday cake façade, the pink and cerise porticoes,
the heavenly-frocked casements, the stucco -
a tiered sibilance rises where the throng in a sportive sweat,
begets its feverish desires.
The accused stand center-stage, as hairless as Sphinx
garnished with sheen's of fear.
Some contemplate the ornate state of their theatrical ruin.
Some already lash their minds behind unfocused eyes.
That was then; I see all this through a blood spattered prism,
the square still seeps
through a crimson varnish of time.
Evening now flaps a checkered flag.
The plaza is now a pitch for celebrating revelers.
Real Madrid fans have surged out of the barra.
Soccer balls are dribbled over cobbles.
I imagine my hapless head plunging in and out
of the heedless crowd. I am their sport,
a candidate for a mocking inquisition perhaps?
Meanwhile, the cats stare patiently,
squeezed as they are into strips of sunset,
a pink Iberian tongue of light that streaks the floodlit scene.
This place could be a plaza for jubilation, were it not
for the sotto voce hissing of these time-stretched
unforgiving shadows above us.
#My_Lookalike_Dilemma
Feels like a Curse, since my childhood someone somewhere looked like me, Nigerians call me Ogah, Somalians calls me Their Own, got punished for being a Lookalike, forced to witness my Purity feathers raffled, bruised from inside out,
fear cripples my bones, I'm never free nor safe, anywhere in this world, voices in my ears, of languages foreign to my own inquisition, cause commotions in mind, wanna break free, run without gazing back, my Lookalike haunts my peace,
troubled from dusk to dawn, shadows peeps through my sanity, I'm crowded by evil, pulling me sideways, trying to reap apart my already confused and scared self. I wanna go home to my mom, into her warm palms as she holds me and assures me of my safety, maybe there, I will die in peace, for there I'm no stranger, nor a lookalike, for there nobody questions my whereabouts or ask my name
wanna go back to my mom's womb, for its the only safe place I have ever been, this world is against me, would have chosen to be different person, came in different frame and pigment, but that's late and irreversible, my Lookalike made me a subject of scrutiny,
lift my eyes to the most high, underneath waters and beneath the Earth, take me while I still can say my plea, before this world take away my voice and judge me enough and prosecute me for crimes of my lookalike,
I'm no Lookalike but my mother's son, engrave my my real deeds to my tomb for I'm savaged by a Lookalike curse. My heart drips, drops of my fending strength, ebbing away and I reiterate, I'm no Lookalike but my mom's son
#Poetic_Ink
Suburban resident pretense, a bleak uniformity.
I grew up among the repetitious homes,
isolated alienated, I wandered the conformity,
the endless square yards, the dull feckless syndrome.
Repugnant yet intriguing, a redundant singularity,
fabrications of fortified, fraudulent self-deception,
blocks and blocks of suffocating, vapid vanity,
I endured the bland boredom like an endless inquisition.
All history, all memory was recklessly strip-mined away.
Barren of lore, fat men rode loud, smelly power mowers
belching oil over manicured lawns with access to the highways.
Insular castles in the air, the tributes to white flight silently cowered.
Everyone tried to grin with toothpaste commercial smiles.
Everyone tried flaunting success with Chevrolet Bel Air fins
and backyard swimming pools, barbeque pits, or patio tiles.
Success was a charade hiding deep, wounded chagrins.
This was the sterile zeitgeist of a secretive colonization,
where everyone was living in Thoreau’s quiet desperation,
where in desolation and despair, every heart lay resigned,
where perverse platitudes and euphemisms numbed the mind.
This microcosm where all communal convictions were taken,
where the broken edges of confident affiliation never awakened,
where commodified adorations formed the language of thrill,
where a busyness cluttered every weary mind like a noisy drill.
I grew up among the monotony; I was devoured by the beast,
this juncture of moment and place, its pain has never ceased.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Bobby and Sue.
These property lines were the racial entitlement of a few.
Some recast this age as Great America, craving a narcotic,
but ennobling these glib, obdurate neighborhoods is ironic.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Richard and Nicole,
concealed the dejected anguish, searching for a soul.
And sadness reigns
Though never ordained
from the simple truth
Billowing joy
Subverting bliss
Standards too ephemeral
To lobby the naked
wishes we hold
Desperately close
To our heart
And sadness reigns
Our heart
once whole
Sputter and mends
And beats eternally
No matter the blood
No blood the matter
It seeks, filters
and dispenses joy
From mechanoly cells
Pleading for regeneration
The familiar beg towards
Indiscriminate joys
Mean nothing but
To be left alone
Crystallized, for exhibition
to the many
Everyone partake
Seek a morsel for
Yourself
Because it's fleeting
And sadness reigns
Through our ears,
Acoustic lies flutter
Sincerely, vacant waves
Of love melodic,
It does its job,
Tainting sweetly our reality
While souls huddle close
For a deeper view
Our here and now
Climbs, repels
From sentimental summits
Vistas of pretty dreams
Fragrant, lauding over
The stench whispering
Towards the barren valley below
Then back to us
Hearing, humming
Exhuming
Chemical reactions
Singed
By recall
Broken or of whole
The music
Causing joy to
Drop by when we need it the most
And sadness reigns
We're startled,
As focus brings
The world into
Rarefied view
Intensive stare,
Colliding our senses
Interpreting their meanings
Elastic snowballs
Thundering into
Psychotic waves of
Lustful avalanches
that burn the retinas
With joy, inquisition,
Indelible glances
Hung up neatly
To wear when
Dreams demand them,
And there are peeks,
Boisterous looks
That tease your mind
And theirs
Visionary tales
Gross of dischord
And malfunction,
Though they serve
As guests,
Glee in a box,
Nibble, taste
Devour, done
And sadness reigns
Because you and I
All before us
And those to follow
And yet to come
Arrive, depart through
Unmarked swiveled doors
Betwixt adjoining suites
Cemented
Endlessly
By the mundane
we require
The horrific which we
Bring and run across
The zeal we grab
For ourselves and others
The aggression we
Wage and deflect
The resignation we extract
And authorize
And somehow
As sadness reigns
We defect
And elect
To be ruled
By something else.
(1/27/05)
(“Something From Nothing”, 2024, original encaustic)
Diversity, equity and inclusion
Used to mean something different
When I was a kid of six
On the playground green.
There amid the other first graders
All together in our uniforms
We didn’t care how we looked,
And what the teachers cared to instill
Was a respect for our individuality
While maintaining a sense of inclusion in the group.
That was the order of things
Individuals each and all,
Equal only as parts of a whole
Without any sense of a need to conform
To being just like everyone else.
The group would of course pass
As we passed on up the grades
And made our way through life,
But the individual would remain
No matter what the context;
Alone, together, or just a part.
The DEI of those days didn’t really matter
Beyond being a playground ideal,
A way to set the stage
For all that would follow
And unfold in its own way,
Time and place.
Now DEI has become a post-modern religion
Something we must all embrace
Lest we slip out of favor
To the dark side,
And we all know where such heresy got us
The last time it was so
And the Inquisitors came to call.
I still get hot around the collar when I think of it…
(6/1/26)
Buried in the dungeon of oblivion
Was the agony that once gripped me
When I was persecuted because of my faith
As a new convert to Christianity which the Bible teaches.
Now, the memory of such phase in my life is being resurrected
While I’m engrossed watching a significant event in world history,
The Dark Ages with its gruesome horrible Inquisition Period
Exposing the “Martyrdom of the Fathers of Our Faith.”
Vividly, the images of religious persecution prevail with glorious triumph
As they present fervent devotion to the almighty sovereign God
Expressed by those illumined by the Holy Spirit and freed from sins’ shackles
Whose raison d'être was to please their supreme Creator
like what the New Testament saints did, who even asserted:
“We ought to obey God rather than men.”
With such nostalgic mood, I’m reminded of how the Lord worked in my life
When I was once under fiery trial in my young believer’s life
By the tender mercy of God along His compassionate might
I emerged victorious --- praising Him, exalting His name
Assured of my Saviour’s precious words in John 16:33:
“…In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer;
I have overcome the world.”
Thus, amidst sufferings that go along my commitment in serving God
Despite consternation belittling my sacrifices for heavenly pursuits
I’m humbled to abide in the will of my Master,
bearing in mind this Scripture’s truth:
“Yet if any man suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed;
but let him glorify God on this behalf” (I Peter 4:16).
October 10, 2018
3rd place, "REMEMBERING WHAT YOU WANT TO FORGET" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on 10/15/2018.